‘Holy Mary Mother Of Maura, I’d Climb Him Like A Stairmaster’ Dublin Girlo Is Back In The Saddle
And back on the sauce. Oops.
Well, my attempt to stay on the dry failed miserably. Two weeks ago I managed to drink several light beers out my besties back, light means light alcohol so that doesn’t really count, right?! I don’t even like beer, but it was there and the sun was shining and HOW COULD I NOT? But then I’m sure I killed all the brain cells I had by drowning them in cider at Electric Picnic.
Over the last 24 hours I’ve had three showers and an hour long bath and I still don’t feel clean. But my ma just sent me the message every Hun needs when she’s clinging on to life like the button on my size 10 jeans that are cutting off my circulation trying not to burst open… “There is dinner in the microwave if you’re passing.”
My hangover today is critical. I managed to find a chipper yesterday that was open at 1pm and ordered the works. A kebab tray, a battered sausage and garlic cheese chips to wash it all down. And after two bites I couldn’t force anymore down and couldn’t handle the smell of garlic to even put them in my fridge for the morning after. My chin looks like something you would trek across on a Saturday afternoon (if you were into that kind of thing) it has so many lumps trying to bust their way to the top. And the bags under my eyes, well they resemble a Louis Vuitton backpack at this rate – a fake one from the Liberties market at that.
While at the Picnic, when I was knee deep in the chats with strangers I’ll never see again but who now know my deepest darkest secrets, and elbow deep in a bag of cans, one of my girlos texts me the oul faithful: “I’ve met the perfect bloke for you and told him to follow you on the gram!” Within 20 minutes he was in my DMs and five back and forths later I got a message saying “Let’s cut the shit. Want to f**k?”
That’s it. That’s how low the bar is in 2019. He didn’t ask how I was, how I enjoyed the festival, what my interests are or even what I was wearing. He went straight in, no kissing, with a big oul do you want the ride, niceties aside. And when I scrolled through his posts half cut, I did stop and think Holy Mary Mother of Maura from Love Island, I would climb him like a Stairmaster… if I could actually last more than 20 seconds on a Stairmaster.
But the lack of effort turned me off big time. Literally dried me right up. I’m not asking for rose petals and candles under the stars but a hello wouldn’t have gone amiss. So now I’m sitting here, rubbing my bloated gut, facing another night alone at home with Barry (the vibrator I won at Bingo Loco) trying to figure out when I got so picky.
Maybe it’s just the post-EP blues, or maybe it’s because my stomach has been making some questionable noises non stop since I got home and I’d be afraid someone would mistake them noises for farts in that situation. But like, what would I even say to him when I opened the door? He hasn’t even asked my age, and I’ve paid enough for Botox to look borderline underage so now I feel like I’ve been ripped off. Or am I just over having sex and entertaining people who are probably riding anything that moves?
Maybe after a full night’s sleep, another shower tonight and tomorrow after I shave my legs and bits and finally rid myself of all the whiteheads on my chin, I’ll feel differently. I’ll either leave him on Seen, or tell him in the immortal words of Christina Aguilera to come on over. Or maybe I’ll lose my mind obsessing non-stop about him when I never hear from him again afterwards. I’ll keep yas posted Huns. Stay Stunnin’.
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